The rebel Viking hairs that copper-threaded
my Semitic iron spade were first to fade
silver as fuck tomorrow ceded way to fretting
over pension and investments. Berserk
no more in middle age, nihilistic
abnegation whelmed by surging waves
of care for kin and colleagues' welfare,
I laid aside my pen and page, muted
rage and issued antiseptic grievance.
And grieve I did, my father, for you, whose
rogue and sober ways have forged me
even as your blood and the auburn hairs
of the grizzled beard you daily shaved bequeathed
to me the tempered mettle of my steel—
and debility in speaking what I feel.